Contingency Operations
by Lena Carr
Summary: "Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on." SHIELD applies momentum. Three interconnected shorts. Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Clinton Barton, Natasha Romanoff.
1. Spiking the Guns

** Author's Notes at the end.**

* * *

Chapter One: Spiking the Guns**  
**

* * *

She's a heartbeat away from being late to the briefing, but Fury is still two steps behind Hill when she reaches the conference room. Klazdeck nods her through the door, with that wry grin that implies _kill me now so I don't have to sit through another brief_. It's been six weeks since Loki nearly ripped the heart out of SHIELD and Manhattan in the same day, more than enough time for the endless meetings and coordination sub-sections and team huddles to regain their leech-like grasp on the day-to-day mission. Hill slides into her seat around the holo projector and has her pad and stylus out in time for Agent Jackson to say, "Good afternoon sir, agents, this briefing is for ears only." Jackson pauses long enough for a long glance around the table, and then another at the few laggards still putting away their pens.

There are more people around the table than Hill had expected – Jackson had brought nearly the entire R&D section, and three-quarters of the carrier's engineering staff. Hill leans back in her chair. _This might be more interesting than the quarterly budget review…_

"Director Fury, you requested a review of the helicarrier's lift capability, with emphasis on maintaining flight during malfunction of one or more of the primary lift rotors." In the holofield, the carrier extends her lift turbines, sheds seawater, and slowly rises through atmosphere. Wisps of cloud scuttle past, washed in vermillion from the holo display.

Fury, his hands clasped over his belt, nods. "I remember."

"Sir, we conducted extensive tests of the airframe, including both in-flight tests –"

"Was that what had half my bridge crew puking on their consoles three weeks ago?"

"Yes, sir, my apologies, sir, we had to be sure." When the murmur of laughter has circled the room and settled again, Jackson goes on. "…and stress tests at Pine Gap on the demonstration model, as well as in-depth and repeated computer modeling. This is the results of the testing." The holo changes to a downward scrolling stream of data-points – two of the techies seated against the wall, not at the table, point at the green equations and lean towards each other, shaking their heads and waving fingers.

"Agent Jackson. I have no idea what these numbers mean."

"Yes, sir. They mean that the carrier performs to original specifications – that she will be able to continue level, controlled flight with the loss of one primary turbine while the remainder function at full power."

"And with the loss of more than one primary?"

"She assumes the glide characteristics of a brick. As allowed in the original specifications."

"Agent Jackson, recent events have shown that the original specifications are. Not. Good. Enough."

"Yes, sir." Jackson meets Fury's eyes, and Hill is caught by another of those flashes of recall that have punctuated the last forty days. Jackson, on the bridge when Barton's first arrow struck, and bodies falling around him as he kept his station.

"I'm guessing you didn't request this briefing to tell me that we're still screwed."

"No, sir. I will now turn the briefing over to Agent Hu, lead airframe research team one. Agent Hu."

One of the two techies who had been talking – was *still* talking – blinks, and rises to his feet. Even in the standard issue SHIELD tunic, _geek_ rolls off him in waves. When he speaks, it is in English so accented as to be nearly indecipherable. "Yes, sir, Agent Hu. To brief on solution." From her chair, Hill can see his hands clasped behind his back, shaking._ One of Jackson's geek rats, I bet he's never even _met_ Fury before…_

She'd be terrified, too. Hell, she sat in this room for six months before she'd been called on to brief for the first time, and she'd still nearly wet her drawers.

Fury, who has flayed agents with his voice, says, mildly, "Agent Hu, please continue. Agent Jackson says you have something to save us all."

Hill winces._ Great boss, no pressure on the guy._

"Yesh shur. Shur –" Hu takes a breath, breathes out, and the next words come out practiced, precise. "With permission, Agent Lee to translate for me. To make this fast – faster."

Fury waves a hand. Hu drops into Mandarin – it is Hill's third language, and she's rated at 3+/3+ on the DLA scale, but Hu loses her two sentences into his explanation. Lee's obviously rehearsed this brief – he's speaking as fast as he can, eyes darting from Fury to Hu and back again.

Hu scrolls through technical sketches, highlighted with a year's worth of footnotes. There are a multitude of issues, apparently, beginning with the fact that the carrier was never meant to fly, something that Hu doesn't seem terribly concerned about, and continuing through the lack of _organic lift surfaces_ which Hu evidently takes personally. But the largest problem is the weight of the carrier, more so than the lift characteristics. As originally framed, with the secondary thrusters, as few as two of the primary lift turbines can keep the carrier in the air – slowly descending, but still under helm's control – but not at the current weight.

"Is this the post-launch up-armoring? Or the extra shielding around the reactor, you know, the stuff that keeps us from sprouting extra arms out of our heads?"

Hu is nodding furiously before Fury finishes the question, as another snicker jumps around the room. The stories of re-configuring the reactor baffling are the stuff of legend, amongst the older crew, and the remodeling required to balance the keel armor even more so. "Sir, both."

"And you're not proposing to do away with either, on a permanent basis, for this contingency issue." It isn't a question. Hu shakes his head, just as violently as he has been nodding.

"So how do you propose to make the carrier lighter? Alternative dimension portal? Transmute the bulkheads into cork?" Fury's voice is still light, but regaining its edge.

"No, sir." Jackson speaks from his seat. "The portal's still too unstable during fluxing power." He nods to Hu.

Hu takes another deep breath, stabs at the console, and they all watch as the bottom of the hull drops away. Hill thinks she can see tiny flecks of light at the jagged seam as the bottom of the carrier peels off. In the image, the shunted half drops, gains speed, and begins to roll as it slides off the field of regard.

"Agent Hu, _what_ are you going to do with my ship?"

"Sir, reduce weight, so can fly." Another jab at the screen, and the carrier – the flight deck, at least, and some of the hanger bays, and what she imagines is the power plant, with the sea screws still attached – settles to earth, -

- the image has tiny trees and tiny branches that whip in the wind generated by the still-functioning turbines –

- the exposed underdecks crumpling as it touches down. A heartbeat, and then a brilliant flash as the reactor goes critical.

Hill realizes she has put her hand over her mouth. Fury is silent.

Jackson – and at this moment, Hill would not be Jackson for anything one could name, including peace on Earth – clears his throat, and says, diffidently, "If we could display the sea landing option…" Hu jerks into motion, pages to the next display, and they watch it again, the carrier shedding her lower decks, the long, deep sweep of her keel as it falls away, and then the flight deck, still level, descending slowly to the sea. This time, there is no flash, but a flurry of sea-foam, and the waves take the carrier down.

"Time of descent."

Hu says something fast, with numbers. Lee translates. "Sir, from a cruising altitude of ten thousand meters - eighteen to twenty two minutes."

"And the lower decks?"

Hu blinks, looks around at Jackson. Jackson stands again, and Hu retreats to his seat.

"Sir, the lower decks are a loss. Reclamation of scrap metal is a possibility over land, or in shallow waters, depending on the height at drop. The largest issue is the safeguarding of classified material – dropping the decks will remove the possibility of centralized wiping. Of course, the amount of equipment that will maintain recoverable integrity depends on the height at drop as well."

Fury grimaces, waves that away. "You've skipped straight past the part where you explain how you get the lower decks to separate." Hu rises hastily to his feet, sinks again when Fury shakes his head. "I'm assuming centralized embedded explosives?"

Jackson nods, punches through a series of images, brings up one of the carrier, stripped of her outer skin, bright red marks shimmering along the frame. "At these locations, sir."

Fury leans back again, one hand playing along his lips. "Time to implement?"

"Eighteen days in dry dock, sir, one hundred sixty days during normal operations."

Fury nods. "Go back to the ocean landing." Jackson slides images through, and they all watch again as the carrier touches ocean –

_with a roar and a rocking shimmering sigh, she always settled herself back into the sea, as if into a lover's arms, after she'd been away in the grasp of the wind_

- and keeps going down, down, the water cresting over the top of the deck, drinking down ship, choppers, jets, all of it.

"So, no time to launch boats once she lands."

"No, sir, personnel will be at extreme risk in either case, once the carrier has reached land or sea level."

Fury stares at the image of the carrier for a full breath, and then another. In the back of the room, someone coughs.

"For the edification of everyone in the room today, Agent Jackson, could you give me your analysis of the performance of the carrier following our recent interactions with the Asgardian known as Loki? Your _condensed_ analysis?"

And no, Hill would not be Jackson for _anything_.

Jackson does not even blink. "Sir, prior to engine number three restarting, we had approximately four minutes of controlled flight time remaining, until the carrier lost heading and began to return to sea level."

"Understood, Agent Jackson." The single eye sweeps the entire room. "Initiate the required steps to bring this option to pass. We will _not _go into dry dock, and one hundred sixty days is far too long. Agent Jackson, I expect you to shorten that time period considerably." Jackson frowns at his folded hands, but does not look surprised.

"Agent Hu." The research agent sits upright in his chair. "Thank you for your efforts. With your guidance, we may have an alternative to the worse case solution." Hu nods and sinks back in his chair.

"Agent Hill."

"Yes, sir."

"Agent Hill, you will research, organize and execute evacuation drills for all personnel stationed in the upper decks. With a response time of less than fifteen minutes. And find me a way to wipe the classified materials on the lower decks." Fury meets her eyes, then, for a fraction of a second, and he does not mention evacuation drills for the lower decks.

Hill clenches her jaw. "Yes, sir."

"Agent Neil."

"Sir." Hill recognizes him – another of Jackson's rats.

"Agent Neil, once Agent Jackson has confirmed that the necessary steps have been taken, you will code the command for this step to my id and to that of Agent Hill, only. Do you understand?"

Her voice overlaps with Neil's. "Yes, sir."

"Agent Hill." This time, Fury does not turn from the screen before him. "Let me be clear - if you ever need to give this order, I won't be in a position to worry about it."

She swallows. "Yes, sir." _Understood._

* * *

_end chapter 1  
_

* * *

Title: Contingency Operations (Part 1: Spiking the Guns)

Summary: "Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on." Three ways SHIELD keeps momentum going. Post Avengers, some spoilers.

Category: Gen, Bob. Tony/Pepper. Some Blackhawk.

Characters: Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, OFC, OMC.

Disclaimer: Not mine, and I swear, they were broken when I found them. Thanks to Flora for beta.


	2. Red Mist

**Author's Notes at the end.**

* * *

Chapter 2: Red Mist**  
**

* * *

_Mr Stark, Ms Potts has returned._

Tony's hands froze in the midst of straightening his tie. "What? She's not supposed to be back for another hour. Check her schedule, Jarvis."

_Sir, confirmed, Ms Potts' calendar shows her engaged at the Opera Support tea until 1630. However, she has entered the building and is enroute to level nine._

Tony snatched up his jacket and ran. She beat him to the door by five seconds.

"Pep! Good to have you back." Tony bustled past the quartet of SHIELD agents, three of them rising to their feet from the chairs where he'd deposited them fifteen minutes ago to change his suit. Again. Pepper smiled at him and lifted her chin to peck him on the cheek.

"Fire alarm at the Met. They threw us all out and Mrs Cohen will reschedule the tea. You look very nice, good to see you in that suit." She brushed at his shoulder, where he damn well knew there was no lint. "What are they here for?"

"They? Oh, you know Agent Hill, don't you?" He had Pepper's elbow now, gently ushering her past the agents, the light on its telescope stand, and the backdrop sheet with the SHIELD emblem prominently displayed. And Barton, still sitting in the corner and staring over folded hands.

"Oh, yes, hello, so nice to see you again." Pep shook hands with Hill, who unbent enough to smile back.

"And that's Agent Blackmon, there, and you – gear-totting guy, what's your name again?"

"Agent Nguyen, sir."

"Agent Nguyen, welcome." And so Pep shook hands with the gear-totting agent, who had less neck than most of Fury's goons, and with the diminutive Agent Blackmon, who kept one hand on the bulky and very expensive looking camera slung around her neck.

"So, do you have everything you need?" This was Helpful Pep, being Helpful. Which he did _not_ need. "Can I help you with – what is it that you're here for? Hello, Agent Barton." Barton nodded back across the room. "Tony, quit pulling on my arm." He stopped. Pepper had her knees locked, and Agent Blackmon and Agent Gear were both swallowing hard under his fiancée's bright smile.

"Official SHIELD business honey, no big deal. Just some photo stuff."

Which was the exact wrong thing to say, because Pep then turned her glare on Hill, who must have had her knees locked as well, because she wasn't backing up, even if the expression on her face said she might want to. "Photos? _Official_ SHIELD photos? How interesting. I'm sure this isn't anything that could be related to promotional activities, Agent Hill, because I clearly remember discussing licensing terms and contracts for Iron Man's image with Agent Fury, and scheduling, and _this_ particular engagement did not clear –"

"Ms Potts, we are not here to –"

"Pep, it's not a promo shoot, look at me, I'm not even in the suit, see?"

"- and we came at Mr Stark's express invitation –"

Which he did _not_ want to get into. "Yes, yes, I asked them to come, can't I invite people to my own house without you blowing a fuse over it?"

"Our house, Tony Stark."

"Twelve percent."

"Twelve percent mine, which makes it _ours_ -"

"Okay, fine, our house, you're absolutely right, but can't I invite people over? Without turning it into another ginormous intergalactic incident?" Which he would give anything for right now. Along with three fingers of whiskey.

And even the thought of the liquor in a glass, falling over the ice, worked a miracle of inspiration. "In fact, you know, now that you're here, why don't we get a few snaps of you, too, honey?" He turned to the SHIELD trio – Hill dubious, Blackmon with raised eyebrows, Agent Gear with his face carefully blank – and said, "We can do that, right? That won't be a problem? Unless you kids have someplace to be?"

Gear stayed blank. Blackmon shook her head. Agent Hill frowned. "No, Mr Stark, you're our last stop for the day. But I'm not sure –"

"I am. I would like Ms Potts to have her photograph taken, same as you're doing for the rest of – for me. Is that okay?"

"Same as who, Tony?"

"The Avengers, Pep, it's a team thing. That's okay, right? Right?"

Hill opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Barton's voice cuts across the room.

"Sure. She's as likely to need it as any of the rest of us."

"Need _what_?" Pepper's voice was still icy, but Tony could hear the shrill rising under the anger. "We have _professional_ photographers – no offense, Ms Blackmon –" And that was a sign of how angry Pepper was, that she started insulting people by accident. The little agent's face had gone to stone. "- and I'm quite sure we can provide SHIELD with superior photos for whatever -"

"Not this." Barton's voice cut across the room. "Not for this, Ms Potts." He shrugged his way out of the chair – it was a good chair, very comfortable, Tony's favorite in this room – and strolled across the room to stand at Hill's elbow. Hill, for once, seemed glad to have the sniper there.

"Damnit, will someone tell me what_ this_ is?"

"It's just a photo -" Tony's voice overlapped with Hill's, but Barton over rode them both.

"Red mist pics."

Pepper stared. So did Hill. Barton shrugged. "Everyone in SHIELD gets them, every year or so."

Pepper shook her head. "I don't understand."

Hill broke in. "They're a contingency option, ma'am. In case – "

"In case there's nothing left of you to scrape together into a coffin, and they need a good photo for the memorial service." Barton's voice was flat, noninflected, and he did not look away from Pepper. "You'd think, with cameras everywhere, that everyone would have some sort of decent image saved somewhere." He shrugged again. "Lots of kids, all they have are cell snaps from Daytona Beach." He extended a hand toward the photographer. "Ms Potts, this is Agent Kelly Blackmon, formerly of US Army Combat Camera. She'll do right by you."

Pepper didn't say anything for nearly a full minute. Then she said, quietly, "I'd like to change my earrings, please." She slipped her arm from Tony's grasp, warned him off with a shake of her head, and strode off toward her dressing room.

Barton watched her go until Tony cleared his throat. When Barton turned, there was a quirk on his lips and an unapologetic look to his eye. Tony scowled. Barton grinned and sauntered back to his seat.

Tony shot out his arms, adjusted his cufflinks. "Agent Hill, can we do this?"

Hill sighed, gestured at the photographer. "All yours, Agent Blackmon."

_She'll do right by you_, Barton said, and the little photographer did. She fussed with the lamps, took out her light meter and made Agent Gear pull the shades. Then she had Tony stand with his feet on tape marks she had put on the floor, and put his shoulders back, and tilt his head. No, more. More. Stop. Too far.

"Oh, come on, enough already."

"Mr Stark, just another one."

"You said that already." God, next Blackmon was going to say _don't pout._

Instead, it was Pepper's voice, from behind him, by the elevator. "Quit sulking, Tony. Don't you want to look your best?"

He'd missed the door opening, and resisted the urge to turn around. Or answer. Because what he wanted to say was n_ot for this_ - never for this, he was never going to need this, he was going to die at ninety with his third liver transplant and the arc reactor still going strong and he would_ not_ need this.

The little photographer hefted the camera, braced an elbow against her side. Stark noticed her left hand, then – the surface of the skin tight and shiny, the color just a little off. The way the last two fingers don't, quite, grip the side of the camera, but instead hung in space. Blackmon had, he noted, no fingernails on that hand.

She snapped the picture, another, brought the camera down. "There. Perfect. Ms Potts, we're ready for you."

And Pepper was ready for them – the same dress she had been wearing, a clear green jade that made her hair look like gold, made her look radiant, rather than _hot as hell_, but with the earrings he had bought for her, personally, in an airport in Rio, six or seven years ago, because he had forgotten to tell her to buy herself something nice, and a good boss doesn't forget his personal assistant's birthday. The heavy stones didn't match the necklace, he thought, but they went with the trim on the dress and the necklace went with the dress and he guessed that was good enough.

Barton, standing at Hill's elbow again, whistled low and quiet.

Tony ignored him, smiled at Pepper, and held her hand as Blackmon fussed at the lamp again, twisting it this way and that, and sending Agent Gear to pull another set of drapes down.

As Blackmon stood there, fingers resting on the lampshade, Tony gestured at Blackmon's hand, at the scar disappearing inside her shirt sleeve. "Where did you get that? On the carrier? When – with –" he waved his hand, encompassing an event greater than the circle of the horizon – "Loki?"

She smiled at him, thin and young and cute and damn-it-all-to-hell _young_. "No, that was before. In Iraq."

Oh. "I was in Afghanistan." Because it seemed the sort of thing one said. "Not – not in the army." Never in uniform. Not as a part of a team. Not then.

"I know. I heard."

She lifted the camera again, gestured with the shiny hand at Tony. He stepped obediently out of the shot and watched Pepper smiling at the lens.

* * *

_end chapter 2_

* * *

Title: Contingency Operations (Part 2: Red Mist)

Summary: "Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on." Three ways SHIELD keeps momentum going. Post Avengers movie, some spoilers.

Category: Gen, Bob. Tony/Pepper. Some Blackhawk.

Characters: Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, OFC, OMC.

Disclaimer: Not mine, and I swear, they were broken when I found them. Thanks to Flora for beta.


	3. Deadman Switch

**Author's Notes at the end.**

* * *

Chapter Three: Dead-man Switch

* * *

_Watch them_ Fury said.

_Who, sir?_ Hill had asked, because he was dumping the _entire_ agency in her lap for eleven entire _days_ and she did not _want_ this, and honestly, she wasn't sure if Fury meant Hydra or the techs digging through the rubble at Western Division or the Avengers as a whole –

But Fury gave her a look that meant _don't be more of an idiot than you can help_ and said, "Barton and Romanoff are still SHIELD assets. Don't lose track of my people, Agent Hill."

So she'd saluted and watched Fury walk away to his "off-site" with the ISC – which she did not envy him at all – and then the whole of the responsibility of SHIELD lead came down on her shoulders. And she might have forgotten about Barton and Romanoff for a day or two, because they weren't actively blowing things up, unlike a number of people both on and off the helicarrier. So when she catches up on the immediate emergencies and comes around to checking up on them, it is nearly midnight Zulu time, and much too late to be making any sort of informal calls. The next day is more of the same. She resigns herself to doing the checkups remotely and dials up the surveillance tapes and the phone records, finding the first sparse and the second non-existent.

There's a note from the surveillance tech guys, rambling and cranky - Stark has done something to the cameras in Stark tower, so the only available tapes are the feed off the gym. She doesn't think Fury meant, _check how many hours of physical training they put in_, but that's what she's got.

The answer is: _hundreds_. Literally, the two agents are spending above fifty hours a week, _each_, in training and conditioning. Hill's in good shape, and she knows it – the average SHIELD marathoner is Olympic class – but she's nowhere near this level of sweat equity.

She's seen the personnel files, of course, and she checks again, and there is no mention of this sort of intensity in previous reports on either Romanoff or Barton.

If Coulson was here, she could ask him.

The indoor range is on a different floor, and while she could track the range utilization done there with a combination of body heat monitoring, ammunition consumption and sub-sonic impact tallies, it's frankly more effort than it's worth to get the surveillance team to hack out the algorithms, and she's tired of listening to sleep-deprived techs whine about inelegant solutions to monitoring problems, and besides, Barton puts a wrench in the works when he switches to the bow. Which, apparently, he does more often now.

The techs can't get the cameras going there, and this annoys Hill, because she's sure that Fury would be interested in any change in marksmanship scores. But the tech guys are involved in some sort of coordinated effort to hack Stark's AI, which even Hill has to admit would be far more useful than a stack of random tapes of Romanoff practicing pistol shots.

So Hill makes do with eavesdropping on their workout sessions in the main gym, the one with the fully padded walls and the thick mats on the floor and mirrors all down the east wall (she watches with a schematic of the Tower keyed up beside her) and spends her late evening hours watching Barton and Romanoff sling iron around, do ab workouts for an hour at a time, and spend entire afternoons in handstands.

She watches most of it on fast-forward, because repetition is the key to strength and speed, evidently, and the two agents – when they are in the room together, which is not always – do. Not. Talk.

Not when doing strength training or cardio. The conversation meter quivers at the bottom of the range as they run on the treadmills, scale the climbing wall, and throw medicine balls at each other.

Sparring, evidently, is different.

They fight every nearly day.

There's a pattern, but damn if Hill can make sense of it. Some days, they start by wrapping up and warming up with throws and punches and blocks, before transitioning to the hard stuff. Other days, they lift for ninety minutes, stretch for twenty, and then spar for an hour. Rarely, they both show up at the gym fully suited up – Romanoff has a different sort of wrist wrap, Barton's arrows are duds, but that's all – and they go at it hammer and tongs for four hours straight.

And they talk, the whole time.

Hill picks up on the repeated words first. It's only later, watching with the sound off, that she begins to understand the pattern of motion.

"Come on, come on, harder, damn it, quit hitting like a girl," Barton taunts, his breath whistling between his teeth. "Limp wristed _commie_ -" and he shuts up then, because Romanoff spins into an attack that Hill can't follow, but it always ends with a blow to Barton's solar plexus that has him bending over and gasping for air. What Romanoff says in return is in Russian, and Hill's conversant in Russian, but not _this_ Russian, it's an old accent, and muttered thickly around the fat lip that Barton's given Romanoff, and Hill can't follow, but she thinks it has to do with Barton's mother and a sheepdog.

Romanoff continues in Russian as she steps in, knee and fist following the first strike, and then another that Barton blocks with a body blow that should send Romanoff sprawling, but she turns it into a roll and a pounce straight back at him.

Barton only grins, shifts his grip on the bow, and uses it like a staff. Romanoff ducks it twice, but not the third, and the lower curve hits her temple hard. She folds, goes down like a dropped box of paper reams.

He stands over her. The angle is bad and Hill can't see his face. His voice, when it comes through the speakers, is tinny and flat. "Yield?"

Romanoff nods, coughs, spits. "The hell with you." She reaches up a hand, and Barton pulls her up, against him. For a moment, they stand like that, suspended, foreheads leaning together.

"You can do this, Tasha," Barton says, and it is so quiet that Hill can hardly hear.

"You know I can," Romanoff says, and it is only a whisper. "Tell me you will." He shakes his head against hers.

"Not yet."

Romanoff steps back, raises her hands, guarding her face. "Then bring it on."

Barton…Barton _smiles_, and they close, trading blows quick and fast and blocks that are blinding, and Hill can't tell who is faster, who is winning, until the blow with the bow-arm repeats and Romanoff is down, on the mat, is on her side, right arm trapped under her, and Barton has his hand in her hair, jerks her head back –

_holy shit_

- against all the regulations of SHIELD gyms and practice rooms and common goddamn sense, he has a live blade in his hand, living steel that glints in his hand and he is tracing a line across Romanoff's throat.

Romanoff slumps down, slaps the mat in defeat, and the knife goes spinning across the room.

Barton gathers her against him and Romanoff turns her face into his shoulder. They remain like that for a moment, both of them breathing hard, shoulders moving as they gasp for air.

"Okay?"

"Fine." Romanoff's voice has a ragged edge, but steadies. "Do it again."

"Again?" And there is doubt, now, in Barton's word.

"Two of three. Or you buy the vodka."

"Right." And like that they rise, and begin again, and_ this_ time Hill knows the pattern, she recognizes this. Tape, it was another tape – and then she places it, in the mass of files that they sorted through, after Loki.

Barton is using every trick he has – the bow, his height, his weight, his strength – against her, but Romanoff stays inside his reach as though she were born there. She turns to let a jab move past her, steps back in to hyperextend his elbow. He wrenches free - _male upper-body strength_, Hill thinks, her stomach tight – and Romanoff steps back, lets him recover. They trade blow for blow, and Barton's weight and reach prove overwhelming, and his knife is tracing a pattern over her jugular veins, when Romanoff stomps her heel on his instep and sets her teeth in his wrist in the same motion. Then she has Barton off-center, and spins him around, before setting up her arm as a clothesline and dropping him _down_.

Romanoff follows him down, slamming her knee into the mat beside his throat as she stabs her fingers at his eyes. She stops and holds, and the cameras aren't that good, but Hill would bet her last paycheck that Barton's eyelashes are fluttering against Romanoff's fingertips.

They stay like that, frozen, until Romanoff's arm relaxes.

"See?" Barton says, "Knew you could."

Romanoff rises, a single motion. Barton comes with her, smooth and fluid and it is hard to tell where he ends and she begins. "Clint…" There is warning in her voice.

"And you'll do it again." Barton's voice is gravel, blasted free of grief. "Tomorrow. And the next day, until we get it right."

If Romanoff says anything, it is beneath the range of the camera mics. They release each other and walk away. Romanoff snatches up a bottle of water; Barton opens cabinet doors until he finds a pair of clean towels. They sit in silence, side by side on the benches, and wipe their weapons clean.

After they leave, the lights in the gym cut off. Hill blinks, fumbles for the next day's tape. This time, the sparing is light – blocks, rolls, a few throws. Then some signal passes, and Romanoff has Barton's left elbow in an arm bar.

He breaks out of that, throws her against the wall and when she comes up snaps a kick at her throat. She rolls out of the fall, impossibly, and closes. This time, the arm bar holds. Another twistHer next strike takes Barton across the throat and she slams her knee down as he falls.

One of them laughs, low and jagged. The hair on the back of Hill's neck rises.

The next day, they do it again. And the next.

At her station on the helicarrier, in the witching hour, Hill presses a finger on the tracking screen. The sparring figures pause, sharp edges blurred with motion, voices abruptly stilled.

She does not know how to report this to Fury.

She wonders if it will be news, or if he knew all along.

* * *

end

* * *

Title: Contingency Operations (Part 3: Dead-man Switch)

Summary: "Until such time as the world ends, we will act as though it intends to spin on." Three ways SHIELD keeps momentum going. Post Avengers movie, some spoilers.

Category: Gen, Bob. Pepper/Tony. Some Blackhawk.

Characters: Nick Fury, Maria Hill, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, OFC, OMC.

Disclaimer: Not mine, and I swear, they were broken when I found them. Thanks to Flora for beta.


End file.
